A Mile in His Shoes
by Determamfidd
Summary: Written for a prompt on the LJ community sherlockbbc fic. When a mysterious pendant turns up in the middle of a blazing row between Sherlock and John, they end up literally getting under the other's skin.
1. Chapter 1

**A Mile in His Shoes**

**Part 1**

John slammed the door behind him, as hard as he could. Then, for good measure (and to signal to any bloody-minded, sociopathic _bastards_ in the near vicinity his extreme displeasure) he opened it, and slammed it again, even harder. The stack of books beside the couch slumped over with a papery sigh.

"Really, John."

John clenched his jaw. He stalked to the kitchen without once looking at the figure hunched primly over the laptop on the coffee table, busying himself pulling out coffee and mug (with unspeakable stain, of _course_, damn him to hell), and slamming cupboard doors shut. He pretended he didn't hear the superior little sigh that wafted from the middle room.

"So you're angry. Judging from the fact that you won't meet my eyes, I assume you're angry with me. Now, from the behaviour you will and will not put up with, I think I'm safe in deducing that it had something to do with today's events…"

"You left," John span violently on his heel, to face the man who was now leaning languidly on the doorjamb of the sliding kitchen doors. "You knew what I had on tonight, you knew it was important, there's no way you could ever _not _know, so why the hell did you leave the station alone? It wasn't safe, Sherlock, and you acted like an arse and left!"

Sherlock Holmes shrugged loosely. "Had a lead. Had to see where it went."

"And it couldn't have waited until I had seen my sister and _come with you_?" John almost roared. His fingers twitched. Sherlock noted them absently, his mind racing._Excess of emotion. Thus there is a deeper meaning to current rage, not just guilt for useless sibling or fear for my survival. John does not give way to emotional excess often – military, younger sibling, stoic, ashamed of pain, prefers to direct attention elsewhere, competent in midst of crisis, uncomfortable out. John has another, possibly sublimated reason for being this angry_.

"I was perfectly safe," was what he said instead.

"He's still out there, you _idiot_, still sending you little messages, still leaving breadcrumbs. You might have been safe before, Sherlock, but that was before _he_ came along. I told you to wait. You said you'd wait. Why the fuck didn't you wait?" John's eyes were snapping with his fury.

_Excuses are not going to be acceptable here. I have to hope he understands this, as he has understood everything else…_"I can't, John. I can't wait. I can't stop, not ever. I... simply can't."

"Harry is fucking _dying_, Sherlock. All I asked for, all I needed, was one night. Spend one night with Harry at the hospital. Then we could go after him, and you wouldn't have been alone in the case there were another forty snipers and another fucking bomb!" John snarled viciously. Sherlock noted that John didn't even tear up at the mention of his sister's impending liver failure. _An inability to show weakness. Stoic to a fault, though he continues to internally practise his grief in advance so it will not sting as much when the time comes. Practical._

John had obviously had enough of Sherlock standing in the doorway and staring at his hands. "Get out of my way," he said in a tight, level voice. "I'm going to bed."

"You were making coffee a moment ago," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well deduced," John's voice didn't change. "But the company I'm keeping is making me too tense for caffeine, so I'm off to bed. Just… just think about it, Sherlock. Think about what you just pulled on me." And John pushed past him and started for the stairs. Sherlock's next words stopped him dead.

"Don't you even want to know what I found at the warehouse, John?" he murmured.

John rounded on him. "You didn't hear a word of what I just said, did you?" he grated.

"Oh, I heard them. I heard most of what you weren't saying, as well. Irrelevant. _Boring_. Come, John, you can't expect me to sit about twiddling my thumbs once I've_worked it out_. It was so obvious, really, once I'd deciphered Erlish's numeric coding system… and so we come to the next breadcrumb. Look at what Dear Jim left us." Sherlock pulled his hands out of his pockets. The gleam of enthusiasm shone in his eyes like madness as he held up the rusted, ornate pendant in his left hand. "I can't wait to find out what it means, where it leads, what it's _for_."

John's mouth was slightly open in disbelief, and he shut it with a small _click_. "A necklace. You risked your life… for a necklace."

"A pendant," Sherlock corrected.

"Pendant, necklace, ornate bellybutton ring, _WHO CARES!_" And this time it really was a roar. Sherlock tipped his head, wanting to study how John dealt with apoplectic fury. "I was pulled away from my dying sister by a man I barely know, telling me that the human computer I live with had gone after the most insane person on the planet _alone_ - risking his life _alone_ - and it turns out it was for a tawdry old piece of crap like that!" John's face had gone quite red. His hands no longer twitched. "You really don't know anything about people at all, Sherlock, you know that? You know everything about them in seconds, but you still know nothing_important_."

Sherlock's shoulders barely slumped. "Lestrade isn't a man you barely know," he said in petulant protest, but John's reddened ears and blazing eyes stopped him.

"_Sherlock,_" John growled. There was a threat in his name.

"John…" Sherlock said slowly. "I can't…"

What he wanted to say was that he couldn't stop, couldn't help himself. The lack of impulse control that had broken his leg at age 8 and put powder up his nose at age 15 and a needle into his arm at age 19 now hurtled him into his work. He disappeared down labyrinthine corridors of thought and only found himself when he was running out of the other end again. Outside those corridors, he never quite felt alive.

John's breathing had quickened by at least 20 percent, and Sherlock estimated his heart rate had accelerated even more. "Can't what?" he barked. His spine was ramrod straight.

"I don't know how to explain it, John," Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing out on one side. "I _have_to know these things, I have to. I can't ever stop. The whole world shouts, and if I can listen hard enough, run hard enough, maybe I'll… I can't turn my brain off, John. It's just…"

"You don't get to excuse what you did tonight by being you," John said flatly. His parade-ground stance had not faltered. "_Anderson_ told me, idiot, not Lestrade. And he loved hearing me panic over the phone, rubbing it in. And not a fucking word from the Great Sherlock Holmes, oh no. You didn't phone, you didn't even _text_, off to face a lunatic on your own when you _said you'd wait_. And now Harry no doubt thinks I don't care whether she lives or dies, running off like that."

"Your sister can barely recognise her own face in the mirror, her mind is so rotted by drink," Sherlock muttered acerbically, his own ire beginning to rise. Honestly, John was being so… so _normal_ it was beyond dull. It was farce. "She's probably raving half the time, some more won't be beyond the norm."

John rocked back on his heels as though struck, his red face paling as though paint had been splashed on him. Then he swallowed hard, his eyes going flinty, and pulled himself up even straighter, if possible. He walked slowly, deliberately to Sherlock, swung back his arm and delivered a textbook punch to Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock of course had seen it coming – John had given him plenty of time to watch it, after all – but forced himself to stand still and receive the blow. Afterwards, massaging his stinging mouth and chin, he wished he hadn't. "Feel better?" he spat.

"Very," John spat back, rubbing his hand. Faster than Sherlock could follow, that hand shot out and grabbed the pendant. "You _bastard_."

"My parents were very, very married, I think you'll find," Sherlock reached for the pendant, but John was inspecting it. "Give it back."

"You know what?" John looked at him sidelong. There was no softness, no friendship in that glance. Sherlock felt something inside him quail. "No. I don't think so. I want it, you see, I just _can't stop_ wanting it, and so I'm going to do what _I_ want, and damn the consequences, and that goes double for anything _you_ want. You go exercise your mind, as it's all that's important to you. I'm going to bed. I'll be moving out in a couple of days."

"John!" Sherlock was actually stunned. "You can't…"

"Can't I?" John lifted his chin. "Watch me."

And Sherlock watched a small, neat figure in a rumpled black coat and jeans walk out of the door, the last piece of evidence in his reddened fist.

That sinking feeling wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

* * *

John put the pillow over the pendant and lay back down, his heart still beating rapidly with the force of his anger. How dare he. _How dare he._

He'd been warned, hadn't he? But he thought he knew better, thought he could reach the human within the glittering clockwork man that was Sherlock. He'd been wrong. Sherlock had allowed him close because he was useful, had become part of his work – but when John had stood outside that work, Sherlock could care less whether he hurt someone. Hurt John. All that mattered was the criminal and the chase. People, even John, were just soggy walking evidence factories to Sherlock.

He wished Sherlock would apply his prodigious brain to what it felt like to be John, right now.

John squeezed his eyes shut against the ache in his throat and stomach, and fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth in the living room, occasionally stopping as yet another way of getting the pendant back from John offered itself up. Then he would shake his head and keep pacing. The sinking feeling had well and truly sunk, and now Sherlock's own anger was winning.

Stupid John.

Stupid little doctor who thought his stupid little problems were more important than catching the most dangerous man Sherlock could imagine, outside of himself of course. Stupid little John with his stupid little emotions and his stupid family loyalty and his stupid need to make sure Sherlock was safe. Honestly, Sherlock was always fine – and anyway, John was always just missing conflicts, barely catching the signs of a struggle in some cases. He couldn't even tell if a man had been choked, or poisoned, or… Yes, stupid John.

Perhaps he could replace it with a stone? No, John slept lightly. It made violin practice more entertaining. But, as he had surely placed the pendant under his pillow (standard kit practice), stealing into John's room and sticking his hand under his pillow was a good way of getting another punch.

It had been a good punch, Sherlock winced, feeling along his jaw.

But what did John expect? What did anyone expect? All Sherlock had was his mind. All he had to be proud of was his intellect. He had nothing else. No-one understood. He'd thought John had, but… no. Not even John knew what it was like to be him, to never relax, to never fit in, to never be wrong, to never be wanted, to never _stop_.

Stop it, he chided himself, those thoughts lead to violins, and violins would no doubt lead to angry John becoming apoplectic John. Stupid angry John who no doubt thought Donovan was right now.

Sherlock threw himself onto the couch, and pulled himself into a tight ball and willed his mind to turn off, for John, stupid John, who wanted it to. If only for a minute.

* * *

If a passer-by on Baker Street had looked up into the windows of 221B that night, they would have seen absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

This proves absolutely nothing.

* * *

John woke blearily. His teeth were still gritted. He'd fallen asleep angry.

And then the memory came flooding back.

_Oh god, did I really punch Sherlock?_ he thought in dismay, groaning a little. To his sleep-fogged mind the groan sounded a little… deeper than normal. But then, another memory slotted into place and the groan became a growl. _Saying that about Harry… bloody hell, he deserved it. Fucking cheek of it._

He sat up and rubbed his face slowly, noting that his hair really had got out of control and really needed a cut. He could feel it on his forehead, which normally never happened – his hair tended to stick up rather than droop. Harry had always laughed at it, and tried to convince him to use a dab of product… _oh, Harry._

John swung his legs over the bed and stood with a surprised jolt. Wasn't the bed higher than that? He'd thought… but then, it was an old bed, perhaps the mattress was compressing slowly, under his sleeping form. Scratching at his stomach (he'd lost weight, it seemed, all that running around) John wandered down the stairs to the bathroom, absently noting that he'd have to buy some new pyjamas that didn't shrink in the wash. He pushed open the door, yawning prodigiously, snagged his towel and caught a passing glimpse of the mirror as he stepped towards the shower.

The towel hit the floor with a soft thud.

John took a shaky step towards the mirror.

Black hair, curly. Tall. Very tall. No wonder… grey eyes, bowed lips, pale skin and gobsmacked expression. Everything in the reflection - except the expression - was Sherlock Holmes.

_Not…_

John raised a hand. Mirror-Sherlock raised a hand. John wriggled his fingers. Mirror-Sherlock wriggled his fingers. They were long, elegant and thin, not like John's short nimble fingers, his broad, callused palms. These hands were for fastidious work – these were the hands of a jeweller, or a…

Or a Consulting Detective.

_Not… possible…_

John raised the hand up and pushed it experimentally against a sharp cheekbone. Right. Definitely his face. But not. Not. His face. Not.

_Not… possible…_

The hand was shaking as he tentatively dragged it through the mass on top of his head. The curls were thick and snagged on his fingers. "Ow!" he hissed, unlacing himself. He'd never had that problem with his…

His own…

His _own hair._

"What. The fuck." John leaned forward, and pulled at his - _Sherlock's_ - hair again. Surely, his own hair was under all that… surely, dark blond spikes, ruffled from sleep, would soon come into view.

"Ow! Shit!" John unlaced his fingers again, and scowled at the mirror. Sherlock Holmes' patented _'why are you all so abysmally dull'_ expression glared back at him. It would seem that curly hair was hard work.

Waist around the same. Longer torso. Slightly hyperextensive elbows. Shoulders narrower. Unnerving to be so tall. John didn't think he liked it. It made him feel… conspicuous, even in the bathroom in his own flat. Ostentatious, even, to take up so much space and attention. John didn't like being conspicuous, preferring to practice his own brand of competency away from the limelight.

_No chance of that now, Johnny_ his sister's voice floated to mind. _Seen whose body you're wearing?_

John resolutely refused to think of that. Too many larger issues closer to hand, or hands, or feet (narrow, long toes) or legs (knobbly), or stomach (hungry, does this body ever eat?) or… god, the whole thing. And he needed to go to the bathroom, and really, really, really didn't maybe sort-of want to. Another thing to not think about,right now. John looked out of Sherlock's face at a reflection of Sherlock's face, and some clinical part of his mind informed him that he was in shock, and then promptly went and hid.

Oh. Shock. Goody.

He'd needed another blanket for a while now.

His arms… were so _long_. And lanky. John hadn't felt this gawky since his adolescence, when he'd gone through his one and only growth spurt, and his height had momentarily outstripped his ability to keep up with it. He'd felt like he was made of knees. Staring into grey eyes over a hard-planed face, a cupid's mouth with a sneer in the corner, John felt dangerously close to losing it. He'd woken up in the body of his flatmate, and as a result was now once more made of knees. Oh god.

"Who's going to believe this?" he murmured, touching one slender finger to the mirrorpane, "who'll believe I'm actually me?"

The sound of his voice, even? He didn't even have his own voice?

"So…" he tried, and his voice, rather than being a light tenor, came out a smooth and velvet baritone. John swallowed. Oh no. Oh god. No-one would believe this. And he was definitely losing it. Right. So he didn't even have his own voice. Right. Right.

_Then who does?_ his mind piped, and John blinked.

"SHERLOCK!"

John stamped down the stairs and bashed on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock Holmes, get yourself here right now!" he thundered in his brand new baritone. Bizarrely, he noted that this new voice was much better at _shouting_. "RIGHT. NOW!"

"Mpphhh!" came a protest from inside the living room, and John stormed into the mess-strewn area to see a head with straw-coloured hair lift briefly, then tuck itself determinedly under the blanket haphazardly thrown over the recumbent body on the couch.

A body far too small to be that of Sherlock Holmes.

A_ha!_ thought John viciously.

"Get up," he barked. "Now. Sherlock, we have a problem. For god's sake, get up. Sherlock! For all I know, this is all your fault! Get the hell up, now!"

"G'way, M'croft," came a decidedly tenor mumble from under the blanket.

John rolled his eyes. Well, that answered the question of whether there were two John Watsons – one in the wrong body - or not. "I'm not Mycroft, Sherlock. Get up."

"Know it's you, M'croft. Sound just like y' did when y'were 30. Before y'started dyeing y'hair." Sherlock's snigger was apparent, even through a blanket, a layer of sleep and John's voice.

"It's John, Sherlock." John crossed his arms and waited for the penny to drop. If Sherlock had slept for three hours or less, it might take a little longer than…

"John? Why d'you sound like M'croft?"

"You might want to take a look at this, Sherlock. Or better yet," John took a deep breath, "look at your hands."

There was a pause, then a rustle of movement under the blanket, another pause (and then another)… and then Sherlock sat bolt upright on the couch, staring at his hands in alarm with John's own faded blue eyes.

"Surprise," John said sardonically.

Sherlock's blond head snapped up and he stared at John in absolute disbelief. It was a shame, John thought, that shock and awe sat so naturally on John's own face. It robbed the moment of something.

"Yes, I'm you, well done," John sat down on his chair, and found it appallingly uncomfortable for Sherlock's long limbs. He squirmed a little more, before giving up and taking over Sherlock's usual chair. It fit perfectly, naturally. "Now that we've established '_what_', can we skip over 'how' and go straight to 'fix'?"

"John?" Sherlock asked faintly.

John gave him a slow clap. "No wonder you're a detective," he mocked.

Sherlock flushed, though his expression didn't change, and John wondered if the man even knew he'd done it. Perhaps his normal body, the one John now wore, couldn't blush or flush at all? Interesting. "Stop it," Sherlock snapped. "Stop mocking me in my own voice."

"Why not, you've got mine," John retorted, and scrubbed at his eyes. There was a beat, and then John sighed. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm… still in a bit of shock and I'm taking it out on you."

"Not very professional," Sherlock said.

"Well, I don't have to be, do I?" John pointed out sharply. "For all intents and purposes, I am now Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. You're the medical professional."

"You are _not_ me!" Sherlock struggled with the blanket, pushing it back over his knees. The suit pants he had been wearing the previous night were bunched and gathered about his legs, and the crumpled white dress shirt bagged comically around the smaller body of John Watson, too tight across the shoulders.

"No," John sighed, and put his head in his hands. "Sorry again."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring at his – at John's hands again, memorising the grooves and indents, stretching the short, strong fingers. "You played the piano as a child," he murmured.

"Yes," John said impatiently, "for eight years. Gave it up to study. Bigger problems here, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to John, and then seemingly slid away. He stood shakily, and swallowed. "You are really very small, aren't you," he murmured, walking unsteadily to the kitchen, the pants flopping ungracefully around his legs.

"I get by," John rolled his eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Tea."

"Oh."

"And a nicotine patch."

"What? No – my body isn't addicted to nicotine, you're not…"

"It's not for me."

"Ah." John looked down at where his bare arm stuck out from the t-shirt (too small now) that he habitually wore to bed. "So. That's what that is."

"You are more irritable, even… allowing for these circumstances, than what would be within your usual parameters. It is a logical conclusion."

John closed his eyes and cleared his throat. "I suppose I am." He opened them again to see Sherlock, scowling faintly, holding out the box. "Thank you."

Sherlock only nodded and walked back into the kitchen to see to making tea. John watched him go, almost more surprised that Sherlock was willingly making tea than at his strangely calm demeanour. He pulled the box open and peeled a patch out, sticking it onto the long, pale forearm. A nagging feeling he had barely noticed began to dissipate slowly, and John felt something uncurl and relax inside him.

"Feel better?"

John's head whipped up, another memory from the previous night thudding into place with a sickening finality. "Don't."

Sherlock smirked faintly and held out John's mug. The expression was all wrong on John's open, slightly weathered face. "Tea. Now let's think about this."

John accepted the mug and leaned back in Sherlock's chair as Sherlock himself tried to fold himself onto the couch as normal, and found he couldn't. With a huff he stalked over to John's chair and flopped into it, slurping noisily from his mug. Abruptly, he burst out, "I had to stand on tiptoe to reach the tea."

John tried not to, he really did, but he burst out laughing. "I always have to. I try not to let on when you're around."

"It's humiliating. I wonder how you manage, with this shoulder. From now on, tea shall be kept in a place where you can reach it."

John smiled. "That would be brilliant."

Sherlock nodded decisively, and slurped at his tea again. "So we have swapped bodies, but not minds."

"I can remember everything," John offered.

"As can I. The circumstances. We had a fight."

John looked away, the anger in the pit of his stomach beginning to prickle, but Sherlock waved a hand airily, dismissing it. "I am not interested in the particulars of our fight, more the motives."

"I can give you motives," John began a little heatedly, but Sherlock cut him off.

"And you did. But I am considering the circumstances precipitating this… conversion."

"Do you stay awake and read dictionaries or something?" John groused. Sherlock tried to raise an eyebrow, and couldn't. John snickered.

"Well. Before I fell asleep, I remember…" Sherlock suddenly looked very small indeed. "I remember wishing someone knew what it was like to be me." The admission looked like it had cost him something. John blinked.

"I remember thinking something along those lines," he offered cautiously. "But wishing doesn't ever make things happen. Or I'd never have to go to work again… Work!" he leapt up, spun on his heel towards the door, and then turned back helplessly to Sherlock. "I can't go like this!"

"You will have to be sick until we figure out what caused this," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Right. Right." John blinked. "I'll get my phone."

After the call was made ('Sherlock' called in on behalf of John. Sarah was slightly amazed at how concerned 'Sherlock' seemed to be), John found that he really couldn't wait any more. Excusing himself, he went back into the bathroom, looked at the tall pale reflection, sighed, and walked over to the toilet. After some adjusting, he looked down gingerly.

"Well, Sherlock," he murmured in genuine surprise. "No wonder you're always so damn confident."

* * *

When John had showered and gone to change into one of Sherlock's suits, he walked back downstairs to find the man in question standing stripped naked in front of the mirror over the disused fireplace. All crime scene evidence had been cleared from the frame, and he was prodding curiously at the angry mass of scar tissue covering one shoulder.

"What. Are you doing," he asked flatly.

Sherlock threw a look over his shoulder, and grinned. "Investigating," he said, almost cheerily. "Did the idiot who butchered you actually have a degree, or are apes allowed scalpels in the Royal Army Medical Corps?"

"It was a difficult extraction," John said stiffly. "There wasn't much time."

Sherlock studied John for a beat, and then stated, "you had to dig it out yourself."

John sighed, and nodded. "No other medical on the front line, except the combat techs, and they had their hands full with dying at the time. Usually the doctors and such are only second-line personnel, attached to mobile field hospitals. I still don't know why, but the powers-that-be decided that a doctor was needed on the ground, and I fitted the psych eval. So off I go. Good thing I was the last one shot that day."

Sherlock tilted his head, and raised the arm experimentally. "Scar tissue prevents you from raising it completely," he noted softly. "You've exercised it religiously, however, to keep the muscle and nerve damage as limited as possible. The scar is soft, meaning you treat the thickened skin regularly to stop it pulling at your undamaged skin and limiting your movement further."

John tipped his head back a little in frustration. "Please, put some clothes on. I know what I look like, and now so do you. We're even, anyway. So, go and put some clothes on before you catch cold, and we can go on with figuring this thing out."

"No need," Sherlock was now inspecting a shallow knife wound along the side of the ribs. He looked up questioningly.

"Not now," John said sternly. "You've worked it out?"

"Oh, _please_, John, even you could work this out," Sherlock's tone was pitying, his expression scornful. John once again experienced the horrible dizzying feeling of looking into a distorted mirror. "Go on."

"You mean…" John pointed a narrow finger at his chest, and then ran a hand through the mop of curls, catching his pinky in a particularly stubborn one. "Um… okay. Well. Something new, then, something in the fight, mayb… oh, the necklace!"

"Pendant," Sherlock corrected him again, flopping into John's chair and steepling his fingers. It didn't have quite the same effect, thought John. "Quite."

"It's… not science. It can't be. This isn't anything like anything ever developed in modern science."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. This is old. Older than science." He dug under the cushion of the chair and pulled out the pendant. John scowled at him. Sherlock rolled denim-blue eyes. "Yes, yes, I went into your room whilst you were admiring me in the shower. Back to the point. This is Welsh, though the period is uncertain."

"Magic," said John flatly. "Are you serious." What his tone meant was _you're not serious_.

Sherlock shrugged. "Any better explanations? I am all ears. Astound me, Doctor Watson."

John crossed his arms. "All right, leave it out." He sighed, looking down at the expensive leather shoes on his feet, then back at Sherlock, who oddly enough looked slightly chagrined at the idea of magic himself. "Really, magic?"

Sherlock ignored the plaintive question and carried on. "Welsh. No fixed period. But the language, however, is translatable. The pendant gives those who hold it in true passion a chance to change their circumstances…."

"Wha… sorry, you what?" John had to clear his throat before trying again, slightly more coherent. "You said what, now?"

Sherlock shrugged imperceptibly. "Loosely."

The floor of John's stomach had dropped through Sherlock's fancy shoes, and his heart was fluttering in his throat. "So when we wished…"

"Exactly."

"Oh god. Wait!" John grabbed the pendant, holding it like a promise. "Can't we just wish ourselves back?"

"With true passion, John?" Sherlock sighed. "Already tried. But do carry on, maybe your trusting little heart will get further than mine."

John held the pendant even tighter, screwed up his face, closed his eyes and wished in every single way he could think of to _be himself again_. But when he opened his eyes, the fingers clutching around the rusted metal were still long, still pale, still curiously spiderlike. John let go of the breath he'd been holding. "Not me either, it seems," he said trying hard to keep the crushing feeling out of Sherlock's voice. "So we're stuck like this… maybe for good. Maybe forever."

Sherlock was regarding him curiously. "I haven't seen that expression on my face since I was, oooh, six."

John slapped the bloody thing on the mantelpiece and turned back. "Sometimes I wonder if you were ever anything as natural as a child," he retorted. Sherlock didn't reply, but his silence and curiously fixed expression spoke louder than a scream. "Oh hell," John moaned. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"I am used to over two patches at a time," said Sherlock, his eyes sliding away from John. "You will have to monitor your moods to-"

There was a knock at the door.

John met Sherlock's eyes, which were also round with horror. "You're sick, remember?" John hissed. "Also, naked!"

"You can't pretend to be me!" Sherlock growled. "Anyone will see right through you!"

"We have no choice! It's this or we get sectioned! Go on, my bedroom, run!" John hauled Sherlock from the chair.

"No time," Sherlock said breathlessly. "I'm in _your_ room for the moment because my illness makes it illogical to go up and down the stairs innumerable times to care for me. And I don't cross my arms, it makes my elbows too pointy."

And with that, he disappeared into his own bedroom, John still working out whose pronoun was whose.

"Sherlock? John? Mrs Hudson, dears, there's visitors for you. Those policemen again. Can I come in?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a scream. "Ah… let them in, Mrs Hudson," he said instead, striving for Sherlock's cool tones.

"One day you'll answer the door yourself, and I'll probably keel over from the shock," commented Mrs Hudson mildly as she opened the door with her key. Behind her Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson _damn it all to hell and buggery_ loomed in the narrow stairway.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," John said, raising the pointed chin as the woman tutted at him and then went to fuss in the kitchen. "And uh, what can I do for you today, Lestrade? Is there something I missed yesterday?" He was improvising, but at least his hands were steady.

"Where's John," Lestrade demanded immediately. John's brow snapped together.

"He's ill. Why?"

"You bastard," Lestrade shook his head and glared at John, who was taken aback. "You utter bastard. You have no idea why going off half-cocked without a plan and without back-up and even without telling your only friend in the _world_ who - and there's no way you of all people haven't realised– would be utterly lost without you. And there you are, calm as you like."

John had a warm feeling blossoming in his chest. He'd had no idea the inspector regarded him that highly. "As you say," was all he could manage, but his borrowed baritone was a little faltering, and he cleared his throat. Lestrade gave him a hard stare.

"Why didn't you wait, Sherlock? We could have sent a team with you for safety, we could have gone this morning, or something. Next thing I know, Anderson tells me you've started yelling something incomprehensible, trashed half the lab, and dashed off into the night."

Suddenly thankful that he'd fought with Sherlock over this very issue, John was able to say confidently, "when I have analysed a problem, I am not able to stop until I have unravelled the whole thing. It's… well, I can't stop. That's all."

"One day someone will stop _you_ if you keep that up," Lestrade growled, and suddenly John could see the concern for Sherlock in the lawman's eyes, well hidden to be sure, but there. Perhaps 'only friend in the world' was wrong, and, John considered, the DI doth protest too much. The moment passed as Lestrade sighed gustily and flopped into John's customary chair. "What did you find?"

"A warehouse. I, er, I am still processing the available evidence."

Anderson crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his whole body radiating belligerence. "Hear that sir? Freak just confessed to withholding evidence. Again."

"Drugs bust time," said Donovan sweetly, and John felt his skin crawl at the antagonism the pair displayed towards him – towards _Sherlock_.

"No! That isn't – that's _not_ what I meant!" John said heatedly. "Call off the dogs, Lestrade."

"I'm tempted to let them get on with it, the stunt you just pulled," Lestrade said darkly, but then held up a hand. "But not this time, if only to spare the sick man."

"Oh yes… John," said John, feeling strange about referring to himself, and not.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Probably can't even remember he _has_ a friend, must be quite the new adventure." John scowled at her.

"I have been caring for him, if you must know," he said as frostily as Sherlock ever could.

"Colour me amazed you can care for anything," she mocked, and John bristled.

"Anyway," Lestrade interrupted, "the purpose of this visit is to get you to provide the data behind that kidnapping case, the one with all the astrological mumbo jumbo."

"The Sign of the Drowned Fish," murmured John, referring to his own name for the case on his blog.

Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "So if you've got a moment, when you're not playing nursemaid," his lip curled, "we need to write up the report."

"And you can't figure out how he - how I did it," John caught himself. Close one.

Lestrade looked significantly at his crime scene forensic investigator, who pursed his lips tightly and grated out, "no."

John grinned triumphantly.

And then noticed that all three visitors were looking at him oddly. "What, is there something in my teeth?" he asked crossly.

"I have _never_ seen you… grin," Donovan said slowly, "and I've known you five years. Five miserable years."

John was getting tired of that. He had no idea how Sherlock put up with all this constant hostility, for nothing other than his phenomenal intelligence – which of course the same people were quite willing to exploit. "Not at _you_," he retorted.

"Stop it, children," Lestrade said wearily. "I wouldn't have brought them, Sherlock, but they were part of the team sent out looking last night, and we were all in the same vehicle, so…"

John was flabbergasted. "You… were searching for me." And then at the truly suspicious expressions, quickly added, "of course you were. Your shirt isn't ironed, your coat has creases, you have at least a two-day beard, and your eyes are bloodshot…"

"Yeah, thanks for pointing all that out," Lestrade snarled, but all three relaxed somewhat at John's hasty attempt at deduction. _Note to self – never not know things_, John thought a little desperately. "A thanks would be nice."

He really hoped Sherlock wasn't listening to all this. No doubt he'd get a critique on mannerisms and personality traits, and the word 'sociopath' would be used at least twice. "Uh… of course. I apologise, and I thank you." His eyes flicked to Anderson and Donovan, and he grudgingly added, "and you, too."

All three mouths were hanging open now, and John was starting to feel a little wild. He couldn't do this, couldn't pass for Sherlock. Even _he_ knew that Sherlock never apologised for the sometimes appalling things he did in pursuit of a case. The man had crashed his _date_, for pity's sake.

"So if that's all…" he trailed off.

Lestrade closed his mouth first, and shook his head. "John's really affecting you, isn't he," he murmured.

_You have no idea,_ thought John hysterically.

Lestrade stood wearily. "Right. Well, I'm going to sleep for at least fourteen hours. Don't throw your life away again until I'm awake, all right? And I want that proof for the star sign case by the time I feel fit to interact with an animal more complicated than my cat." Lestrade pinned him with his gaze, but John could outstare a drill sergeant and just returned it firmly and steadily.

Donovan and Anderson had recovered mostly from the shock of the apology and thanks, and Donovan simply nodded curtly and walked from the room. Anderson sneered at him slightly. "The good doctor must have been some sort of dog trainer in a previous life, he's done wonders."

John didn't dignify such a clumsy insult with an answer.

Lestrade stopped in front of him, and poked him in the breastbone, hard. "Don't do it again," he growled.

John couldn't even begin to know how Sherlock would react to that, so he just maintained his stare as Lestrade sighed and walked out the door. When he heard the front door click shut, his breath left him in an almighty whoosh and he flopped the gangly limbs onto the couch, feeling drained.

"I'd love a cup of tea, Mrs Hudson," he called fervently.

"Not your housekeeper, dear," came the usual answer, though John knew that a cup would be placed at his elbow in at least three minutes. He put his head in his hands and tried not to think of anything, anything at all.

* * *

Whilst John played at being him, Sherlock huddled under the covers of his bed, still stark naked, and felt the panic begin.

He'd kept himself together in front of John, because really, the man was on tenterhooks enough as it was, and Sherlock hated having anyone see him display a weakness.

But now, with his body no longer a match to the long indentation in the cheap mattress and a defective arm and shoulder (despite the best of remedial practices) and worse, _short_ - Sherlock could feel something hot and fluttering make a nest in his throat. He hated it.

Question, explore. Take your mind off this. So. John's body, then.

Five foot seven, abysmal. Lined forehead, skin slightly tanned still, extremely pointed nose, only this side of being beaky by virtue of a slight uptilt. Broader shoulders than he was used to – it gave him a slightly bullish feeling where he usually had a racehorse quality.

No. Concentrate. No feelings.

Hair is ridiculous, but easy to maintain. Very flyaway, and finer to the touch than he'd have expected. Large ears, thin lips, strong chin, expressive brow – and only the left eyebrow could raise independent of its fellow (not the right – he'd discovered that in humiliating circumstances earlier). Narrower waist than could be detected under those bulky jumpers.

Sherlock raised up the hand again. There, the telltale muscle memory of a hand that has played piano, the fingers relaxing into a curve almost automatically. Another scar (John seemed to be peppered with them) in the meaty heel of the palm – childhood most likely, possibly the spoke of a bicycle wheel?

Intrigued, Sherlock threw back the covers to look for more, latching onto the (admittedly flimsy) excuse to ignore the impending panic. Scars. So many of them. He'd spotted some of them in the mirror earlier, and of course had noticed the ones on John's arms when he rolled up his sleeves to do the washing up, and there was no missing the silvery crisscrossed mess that stretched between the left shoulder and collarbone. But there was also a thin white gash on his upper thigh (which was sparsely covered in fine blond hair) and a truly ugly ridge on his breastbone, as well as the vicious slice along the ribcage, amongst others… and most were within two years old. He would hazard a guess (though he hated guessing) that most were, in fact, from the very same incident.

John had been captured. Most likely hypothesis. He'd been captured by insurgents in Afghanistan after he was shot (the_last one shot_, he'd said) and tortured for information or ransom, though the last was less likely, as John was not from a wealthy family. He'd finally escaped, or had been rescued.

Sherlock suspected the former. John Watson was not a man made for passive inaction.

A snippet of the conversation from within the room drifted to him, and Sherlock stood and crept to the door, placing one ear against it. He immediately wished he hadn't, as Lestrade had obviously taken 'Sherlock' to task over the events of last night, and John was floundering, saying the wrong things, and trying his best… to…

_Wait… stop._ Sherlock pressed John's ear closer, his breath catching. There was real _concern_ in Lestrade's voice.

He half-heard John make the excuse he'd made only last night ("I can't stop") and he realised how weak it sounded. Then Lestrade revealed they had been searching for him all night, and his breath stopped completely, trapped in his chest. He'd not ever thought to consider that perhaps…

Maybe it wasn't just _one_, after all…

How extraordinary.

And then his blood froze as he heard the reaction to John _grinning_ - no doubt in vicious triumph at Sherlock's ability to stump the obnoxious Anderson – and then…

Sherlock _never apologised_. People manufactured their own hurts and wants and if they chose to feel distressed by another's actions, then that was their own, highly illogical lookout. Sherlock had the insane urge to stamp into the room and demand that John _do it right_, for pity's sake. He began to formulate a curriculum for acting lessons.

Finally he heard the door shut behind the Yard's Finest, and his breath decided to return from wherever it had been trapped, and on its heels, the long-suppressed panic.

Sherlock pushed himself from the door, and grabbed one of his shirts and a pair of pants – nothing to fit his current circumstances, but he had to get out of the room, had to be with others to distract him from the churning of his mind.

After all, he had to learn to be a doctor, not a sociopath.

Mrs Hudson looked over at where Sherlock was slumped over in his chair. The poor dear, he looked worn out and that policeman turning up was never good news. His head was cradled in his hands, and he was quite still. She put the cup of tea on the chair's armrest, and put her hand on the poor lad's thin shoulder.

"Cheer up, Sherlock," she said kindly. "It might never happen."

A muffled choking sound came from within Sherlock's hands, and then he mumbled, "thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Do you need anything else then?" she asked sympathetically. She really didn't mind being a help when Sherlock was quite so obviously down in the dumps. As long as he didn't start treating her like some sort of (and the word was tinged with disdain) _housekeeper_. She'd done quite enough of that in her lifetime.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked up at her, a faint smile tugging sadly at the corners of his mouth. "No, I'm fine," he said, and patted the hand on his shoulder gently. "Thanks for the tea."

Mrs Hudson's worry deepened. She'd never seen an expression like that on Sherlock's face – it was always determined satisfaction at a case in the works or petulant boredom. He only smiled – if you could call it a smile – in the presence of Doctor Watson.

Who was stumbling out of the lower bedroom wearing a shirt and trousers far too big for him. Her eyebrows shot up.

"John, dear, did you want tea? Kettle's just boiled," was what she said, but her mind was shrieking _Knew it! Oh wait til I tell that smug Eugenie Turner!_

John was very pale. "No, no tea." He made it to the sofa and threw himself down. Then he grabbed a cushion, batted at it viciously and curled up around it in a petulant sulk. "This is intolerable," he announced to no-one in particular.

Sherlock grunted assent, and took a sip of his tea, grimacing. "You take far too much sugar in your tea," he muttered sourly.

"Now you do too," said John snidely, and rolled over so he was facing the wall. Mrs Hudson mentally tutted. Obviously bad habits were transferable.

"I'll leave you boys to sort yourselves out, then, shall I?" she said, wiping down the front of her dress. "John, I'm sorry to hear you're not well. I've left a lemon cake in the fridge, and Sherlock, I want that thing out of my building, you hear me? Give it a decent burial."

Sherlock looked vaguely confused, and then his expression cleared and he looked darkly at John. "Certainly," he said with satisfaction.

John's head jerked upwards, and he looked like he was about to protest, but thought better of it. Sighing, he tucked himself up even smaller.

"Get some rest, I'll leave you to it," Mrs Hudson ordered, and she shut the door behind her with a careful _click_.

Oh, she'd have a lot to tell that unbearable Mrs Turner, that was for sure!

* * *

A week had passed.

Sherlock had briefed John in every aspect of the star sign kidnappings, so John was able to go to the Yard and fumble through the report. The fact that Sherlock had even provided him with crib notes, however, was slightly alarming, as was the fact that they began, "STOP ACTING LIKE YOURSELF."

Molly, when he ran into her, was the only remotely friendly face beside Lestrade. Her attention was fawning and a touch star-struck, and John found it a trifle irritating, as she couldn't really speak to him. Everyone else he encountered treated him with a touch of awe, a smattering of envy and absolute hostility. The pressure of pretending to be relentlessly brilliant was exhausting and isolating. John didn't find it hard to emulate Sherlock's cold demeanour any more.

It was actually very lonely.

On the upside, however, he barely needed to shave. Sherlock's beard was near non-existent.

Sherlock had gone to the surgery after three days, just for something to _do_. He couldn't believe how many screaming children, hypochondriac idiots, and need-a-Doctors-Certificate-to-explain-a-sneaky-'sickday' patients he saw. Those were easy, although he made a few cry. It was when someone who was genuinely sick walked through the door that he became lost. He knew something of medicine, but diagnosis or how to prescribe the correct medication eluded him, and so he amused himself by researching symptoms and asking John when he got home.

He was surprised at how many people considered John a friend. His co-workers were positively genial towards him, joking and laughing over the coffee in the cramped little kitchen. Sherlock made a ham-fisted effort to copy John's quiet but cheerful manner, however, no-one noticed anything out of the ordinary which gave him some relief. It was ridiculous how many people relied on John. Sherlock was beginning to understand that.

The worst, and the best, was Harry.

John had begged Sherlock to go with him to the hospital. Sherlock, with something like guilt, agreed. And so the pair found themselves in a ward for the terminally ill, and Sherlock looked into a drawn face that looked painfully like the one he wore.

"Johnny," Harry Watson smiled weakly, "you look how I feel. Sit down."

Sherlock glanced at John, who gestured at the hospital chair. Sherlock sat gingerly and awkwardly clasped Harry's outstretched hand. "Hello, Harry," he said quietly.

"Oh, none of your funeral faces," Harry squeezed his hand, and Sherlock heard John give a choked laugh. "Watsons are too good at funeral faces, if you ask me, hangdog all the time. Wish I'd looked like Mum instead of Dad. She had laughing eyes. Bet I wouldn't have ended up here if I'd got them."

"You have laughing eyes," Sherlock told her. He felt a long-fingered hand rest on his shoulder and tighten painfully. "They're laughing now."

"That or cry, little brother, and I've done enough of that," she sighed, shaking their clasped hands a little. "So, this the mysterious flatmate?"

"Er," John said, "yes. Sherlock Holmes."

"I know," she grinned up at him. "You're all he talks about. Wish Mum and Dad were still here – I'd give them hell about never getting a grandchild."

"Harry!" John scolded, and then realised he was wearing the wrong face for that. Sherlock dived in to cover the situation.

"I've been telling him all about you, too," he tried to smile, "I think he's picked up a few things."

"Naughty, Johnny, talking about me behind my back," Harry chuckled. "I should _hope _he's picked up a few things!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sit, Sherlock, no need to stand on ceremony," Harry told him, and then pressed the button that tilted her bed upwards slightly. "I'd offer you something, but that's sort of what got me into this mess."

Sherlock could see John's resolve quavering, his façade starting to crumble. "Don't, Harry," he said softly.

"Well, you warned me, John," she said sadly. "You warned me time and again. And now my eyeballs are yellow and my liver's turned to stone and I can't remember anything that happened only last week, and I'm last on the transplant list because I'm an addict with a high risk of relapsing. Oh, and I look at least five months pregnant," she added sourly, her free hand smacking her puffy abdomen.

Sherlock could feel the hand on his shoulder starting to shake. "Look on the bright side, he said helplessly. "Free room and food."

Harry looked at him blankly, then burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, I needed that," she giggled as her laughter died down. Sherlock tried another smile. John's face was certainly more practised at them. And the hand on his shoulder had stopped shaking. "Aren't you _ever_ going to sit, Sherlock?" she asked then. "You like 'em tall, dark, handsome and above all, quiet, do you Johnny?"

"Oh stop it," Sherlock muttered, aware that she had just _called him handsome_.

"I'm not always that quiet," John himself muttered, grabbing the other chair and sitting beside Sherlock. Harry smirked.

"So when are you 'not always that quiet,' Sherlock? I want details. Where, when, how many times, and with a presentation, if available," Harry leaned forward, grinning.

Sherlock almost laughed himself at the expression on John's borrowed face – dying to tick Harry off for the insinuation but holding his tongue. "Ah, I believe it goes; crime scenes, any time as criminals aren't exactly fussy, I've lost count how many times he's shouted at the police, and as you don't have a murdered corpse surrounded by idiots who call themselves detectives lying around handy, we'll have to skip the presentation," he said dryly.

John was grinning at Sherlock now, relief at the intervention apparent. "I also play the violin at 3am," he added. "That gets noisy."

"You two are no fun," Harry complained, but there was a twinkle in her eye. "Tell me about the last case, then. I could use some Murder-She-Wrote escapism."

Sherlock scowled at her for trivialising his work, but a sudden stillness from John made his mind jump tracks. The last case… no, not a good one to talk about. At all. Ever.

"Dull," he waved his free hand airily. "The last case wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Let me tell you, instead, about how we met."

"Oooh," Harry propped her head up onto her hand. "This is going to be good, isn't it?"

Once they'd told the (heavily edited) story of a Study in Pink, bickering the whole tale, Harry was giggling again. "I can imagine you leaping about the rooftops of London," she said to Sherlock.

"It's the coat, isn't it," deadpanned John. "Everyone mistakes me for Batman."

Harry laughed harder, and then flopped back onto the bed, her eyes closing. "Oh, I'm tired just hearing about it. All that running."

"We should let you rest," Sherlock said, but Harry growled.

"You're going nowhere."

Sherlock's estimation of the woman shifted yet again. _That_ was a very… Watsonesque trait, it seemed, the ability to change things through sheer stubbornness. "We're going nowhere," he nodded.

"He fixed your limp, Johnny," she half-smiled, her eyes still closed. "I'm glad."

"His therapist is an idiot," John offered, and shared a small smile with Sherlock.

"She is," Sherlock agreed.

"Are you happy?" Harry asked abruptly, opening her yellowed eyes and staring into his. "Johnny, are you happy?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it, nonplussed. The silence stretched, echoingly loud, and he tried to think of anything to say, to reassure Harry and John simultaneously. Though his mind threw up possibilities by the dozen, he couldn't seem to find one that _worked_. People were always so hard. And then, John spoke.

"I think he's happy," he began quietly, and both pairs of eyes swung to him. "He doesn't limp anymore, so he doesn't think he's damaged anymore. He's got a job and friends and a purpose and someone to share it with him. He's not happy unless he has a cause, you know that, Harry. And he's… he's needed. He's the biggest thing in my life, and I'm the biggest in his. So yes, I think he's happy. Mostly. When he isn't livid with me."

Harry nodded slowly, eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed hard, and trained his eyes away from John.

"Good. That's good." Harry smiled at John. "Thanks, Sherlock."

John only nodded.

"Um, do you mind if I have a private moment with my brother?" Harry asked then, and John's eyes widened.

"Ah… well, ah, no? I'll just – just wait for you outside the door, shall I, John?" John stammered, and reluctantly dragged himself from the chair. He looked pleadingly at Sherlock as he left, who tried to reassure John with his eyes. When John slipped around the corner, Sherlock turned back to Harry, who was surprisingly sombre. From what Sherlock gathered, this woman was never sombre if she could help it.

"John," she said seriously, "did you know that man is in love with you?"

Sherlock felt like he'd been slapped. "What?"

"It's in the way he talks, the way he looks at you – hell, you even fight like an old married couple. You can't possibly have missed it."

Apparently he possibly _could_. "I… don't think so, Harry. Sherlock… prefers other company." He couldn't begin to explain it – Sarah and Abigail, then Mary, Suz and Rebecca – John was never without female companionship. This 'hangdog' face, as Harry put it, plus a war hero's record (and a penchant for solving crimes in his spare time) made him an attractive prospect to many women, Sherlock knew. And John came without any misanthropy or bizarre habits, unlike Sherlock.

"Then they're substitutes," Harry said bluntly. "He's in love with you. Probably doesn't even realise it."

"You're wrong," Sherlock shook his head, a bit too violently. "Part of your teasing, as earlier. You like teasing me about my sexuality."

"Only because you're one of those bloody bisexuals who can't pick a team and stick with it," Harry nudged him with her elbow. Sherlock blinked. _That_ wasn't something he'd known about John.

"Yes, well," was all he said.

"And you're completely besotted with him, Johnny," she continued. "He's all you ever talk about, Sherlock this, Sherlock that…"

"Well, we do live together," Sherlock said dumbly, his mind somehow on pause. "We work together, too."

"Just," and Harry leaned over and grasped both of Sherlock's hands hard. "Just promise me you won't let something wonderful slip between your fingers," she said in a low, urgent voice. "Promise me."

Sherlock looked into her eyes, and saw the flames of a failed marriage, the shape of a woman Harry had loved and lost. "I promise," he said quietly.

"Good," she said, slumping back into the pillows. "Then go get him, tiger."

When John pressed him about what Harry had said in private, Sherlock made something up about Clara. And wondered what it was he'd promised, or whether John had actually promised and didn't even know.


	2. Chapter 2

Not mine, no money, no sue.

* * *

**A Mile in His Shoes**

**Part 2**

John felt he was getting better at this. He would walk into the crime scene, rattle off some deductions, and leave, Sherlock trailing. When he missed one clue, or more, (or, in fact, all the important ones), he would spot Sherlock looking significantly and surreptitiously at say, the victim's left shoe, and he would study it further. And then Sherlock would berate him in the cab home.

This time, it was actually easier. John thought he'd only missed maybe a couple (perhaps living in Sherlock's head for a month had done it) and was feeling slightly pleased with himself. That is, until he saw a sleek black car pull up outside the yellow tape and a carefully combed dark head exit from the other side.

_Oh hell_.

"Sherlock," he hissed, nudging the man next to him. Sherlock nodded his sandy head, eyes grim.

"I see him. We cannot do this here. Intercept him and get him back into the car." Sherlock looked sidelong at the Yard's finest, scurrying busily around the scene like so many blue-suited ants. "He's lost a little weight – trying a new diet, no doubt," he sneered.

"Come on," John said under his breath, and they moved to where Mycroft Holmes stood leaning casually on his ubiquitous umbrella, waiting.

"Sherlock, you're looking well," he said smoothly as they neared. "Trying something a little different with the hair, are we?"

John still couldn't manage the curly hair. "And you've lost weight. New diet?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm busy," John said shortly.

"And Doctor Watson, a pleasure as always," Mycroft continued as though Sherlock hadn't spoken. "I do hope my brother is treating you well. You seem tired."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said in a close approximation of John's habitual resigned exasperation when it came to the elder Holmes. "Can we get on with this?"

John sighed. "Not here," he said. "Into your car."

"Very well," Mycroft inclined his head, and genteelly opened the shiny black door for them. "After you, Doctor Watson, Sherlock."

"You can call me John, you know. I more or less recognise the name," said Sherlock in irritation. Dear god, but his brother was grating.

"Apologies. John. If you would?" And Mycroft gestured to the open door. John threw Sherlock a quizzical look, before sighing and clambering into the luxurious leather interior, Sherlock on his heels. Mycroft circled the car and entered from the other side, sitting facing them in the tinted light.

Mycroft tapped the adjoining window to the driver with the handle of his umbrella, and the car started up. John watched the crime scene pull away with a sinking feeling.

"I need your help," Mycroft began.

"So what else is new," Sherlock grumbled, and Mycroft gave him a puzzled glance.

"I'm sorry, Doc-John, but I am talking to my brother," he said, politely but with a hint of firmness. Sherlock rolled his eyes and John could see the fingers of his hands twitching as though for a violin.

"What do you want, Mycroft," John said in as bored a tone as he could manage.

Mycroft gave him an approving look. "There is an… ambassadorial situation," he began in that delicate way of his. "A man with diplomatic immunity has been, shall we say, abusing it."

"And you want proof," Sherlock said, leaning forward. John was alarmed to see his fingers steeple beneath his chin. Mycroft's eyes flicked to him.

"Yes," was all he said, and his eyes showed no change, but somehow John knew the man was suspicious.

"Details," John asked, still striving for that bored tone. "Have you any? Surely you've enough minions and lackeys without resorting to me to do your homework for you. Or have you too many assassinations, land wars and coups in your to-do pile?"

Mycroft sighed theatrically. "Don't be trite, Sherlock. Will you do it?"

"And why should I?" John crossed his arms. And then remembered (_shit_) and uncrossed them hurriedly, but the damage was done. Mycroft's expression was carefully, blandly blank. His long fingers toyed absently with his umbrella.

"Because I am asking _nicely_, Sherlock. You've not done any large cases in the last month or so, and no doubt you are bored. Besides, I will pay you. Or rather, our grateful government will pay you. What do you say… _Sherlock_?"

John raised his eyebrows, and said nothing, hoping against hope that Sherlock might give him a clue as to how to proceed. His interest was obvious, but his rivalry with Mycroft was too ingrained… John had no idea what to do.

And somehow, damn those bloody Holmes powers of deduction, Mycroft spotted it.

"You are not my brother," he said softly, dangerously.

John swallowed. "Mycroft…"

Suddenly there was a blade at his throat. John froze. The shank at the tip of Mycroft's umbrella had slid off, and there was a vicious-looking dirk within, pressed dangerously against John's borrowed carotid.

_Only a Holmes would have a fucking umbrella sword_, he thought, a little hysterically.

"Who are you and what have you done with my little brother," Mycroft snarled, eyes blazing.

John tried to swallow again, but the pricking against his throat stopped him. His mouth was very, very dry. This was the man who worried constantly – and John now saw how true that was.

And so could Sherlock, John realised with a jolt, and his eyes sought out the other person in the car.

Sherlock was open-mouthed and staring, but when John's eyes meet his, he snapped out of it. "Stop it. Mycroft, stop it, it's me. Here. That's John."

Mycroft didn't move. After a beat, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm Sherlock. The person you are about to skewer is John. And that umbrella is the most tacky thing I have _ever_ known you to own, which is saying something as you once owned a pair of cufflinks in the shape of hearts. When you were eleven. You have never told anyone."

John took advantage of Mycroft's distraction to clap his hands around the long but slender blade and snap it off.

"I," he panted at Mycroft, "really, really hate knives being pointed at me. Had enough of that, thanks. Don't do it again."

Sherlock gave John an impressed look. "How on earth did you know to do that?"

"Samurai films," John said, still slightly out of breath. "I keep telling you there's something to be gained from popular culture."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Boring."

"It is not. And leave my gun alone."

Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft's eyes were very wide. "Ah, apologies, Doctor Watson," he said to John. His voice, normally very smooth and assured, was strained and shaky.

"John," said John firmly, catching Sherlock's eyes, and suppressing a grin. "I more or less recognise the name."

The grin was suppressed for all of two more seconds, before the pair burst into laughter. John felt _fantastic_. His heart was racing, his life had just been threatened, and he was making dreadful jokes with his best friend in front of the spookiest Spook he'd ever known. It was _glorious_. Their laughter died down until John was chuckling softly and Sherlock was sniggering at Mycroft's face. "Ahhh," John sighed out the last of it, "sorry, Mycroft, couldn't resist. It's been a… bit of a weird month."

"How have you done this?" Mycroft had regained quite a bit of his poise, and was now leaning elegantly over his clasped hands. "It's… _extraordinary_."

"Beats me," John shrugged. "Sherlock was following Moriarty, being a right prat about it too, risking his bloody life without me, next thing I know there's an ancient Welsh pendant that grants wishes in the middle of our fight and I wake up right-handed and a head taller with bloody impossible curly hair."

"Pendant," said Mycroft musingly. "An ancient Welsh pendant. And you found this where?" he turned to Sherlock, who scowled.

"An abandoned warehouse near the power station. I followed a series of numerically coded locations found in the email orders to Horace Erlish, one of Moriarty's lesser 'clients'. The pendant was in the safe."

"It was unlocked?" John asked in surprise, and then felt foolish as both Sherlock and Mycroft gave him matching withering looks. "Okay, fine, so it wouldn't matter if it were. You two are all kinds of wrong, you know that?"

"The warehouse was abandoned," Sherlock continued, ignoring John, "but had been used to store goods in the extremely recent past. Contraband, I suspect, as the remains of crates were still present, and any and all shipping markings were painted over. So someone doesn't wish others to know where those goods are coming from."

"Arms?" Mycroft pressed, and Sherlock's tawny brow knitted.

"Possibly," he admitted. "The crates, when reconstituted, certainly would have been large enough for a shipment of various kinds of weapons."

"So," Mycroft pressed one finger over his lips. "A dead end. A trap. And a clue that turns out to be a Trojan horse, which puts you, effectively, out of action." He tapped his lips, thoughtfully. "Only you've not stopped, have you?" His eyes, darker than Sherlock's, darted between them. "Only slowed somewhat."

"He is _not_ stopping me, and only an idiot would try to stop John," said Sherlock bluntly. John smiled at him, and Mycroft shuddered delicately.

"You have no concept of how odd it is to see Sherlock smile, especially with myself in the room," Mycroft murmured. "Disconcerting, to say the least."

Sherlock scowled at him. "We can still work," he said sharply, "returning to the _point_ here."

"So you'll take on the job," Mycroft said. It wasn't a question. "Good. I will send the details to 221B. Don't lose them."

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed.

"This… pendant," Mycroft then said slowly. "Do you still have it?"

"Yes," said John, just as Sherlock said "no." Mycroft beamed.

"Thank you, John," he said warmly. "Would you like my people to take a look at it?"

"Your people will end up inside each other's heads, or worse," Sherlock retorted. "This is not a weapon or a likely spy tool, Mycroft. This… is _hard_. And we have no idea whether we may ever change back again."

John met Mycroft's hooded, concerned eyes, and he nodded once, then sighed and leaned back into the soft black leather. "Sherlock has had to cram best part of a medical degree into his spare time, go to work, and research whatever the hell has happened to us," he explained quietly. "And me…"

"What John isn't mentioning is that I have also had to deal with people as one of them, as god forbid, _normal_," Sherlock growled. "Everyone wants to talk to John. Everyone wants to confide in him. People need to _bond_ with him, they want his _advice_. He's pulled and pushed everywhere by others, it's utterly intolerable."

Mycroft looked vaguely horrified. John felt he was being insulted, somehow.

"And me," he continued with a dark glare at them both, "I have had to put up with no-one ever talking to me, with being incredibly lonely, with being insulted half a dozen times daily, with learning frankly _appalling_ mannerisms, with rampant nicotine addiction, and finally with pretending to be a maladjusted genius who knows everything about everybody, when I'm making half of it up on the spot."

Mycroft now looked falsely sympathetic, and John knew he, as with Sherlock, saw absolutely nothing wrong with that scenario. He growled, and his head thudded back against the chair. "You're both impossible."

He was answered with matching smug expressions, one on a pale, urbane, dark-haired face and one on an impish, weathered face under sandy hair. "It would have worked a lot better when you still looked alike," John told them spitefully.

"I do _not_ look like Mycroft," Sherlock spluttered.

"He's far too unpolished," sniffed Mycroft.

"He's far too _fat_," Sherlock retorted.

"Stop it," John said wearily. "Just, stop. Now."

There was a pause. And then –

"I do _not_ look like that pompous overstuffed spider."

"Sherlock! I'm _warning_ you…"

"Oh, what will you do, run to Mummy? That's always been your style…"

"At least I _have_ style, you spoiled little idiot."

"Spoiled? Those cufflinks were _diamond_."

"They were a present for not correcting the examiners! Father said so!"

"_Diamond_, Mycroft."

"Well, what about you, Mr Oh-thank-you-Father-and-Mummy-for-the-lab-in-the-old-servants'-quarters?"

"What about it?"

"They were two stories high, Sherlock."

"Well, I fixed that."

"Yes, they're now the second wine cellar, aren't they?"

"Stop," moaned John.

Another pause. And then –

"You see. You see what you're doing to John."

"What _I'm_ doing to him?"

"You'd think you'd have a bit of consideration, Sherlock. The man's obviously been through hell, pretending to be you."

"At least he didn't have to pretend to be _you_. There's only so much the man can take, after all."

"And you, of course, would know how much the man can take."

"And what do you mean by that, pray?"

"Oh, please stop being obtuse, Sherlock, it's utterly enervating."

"Please!" shouted John, fisting his hands against his knees. There was another, deliberate silence.

"My apologies," said Mycroft – and to his credit, the smoothness of his voice did actually suggest remorse.

"I'm sorry, John," was what Sherlock said, and then refused to meet his gaze.

John closed his eyes and waited for the pause to end as before, but neither brother began their bickering again. When he opened them, Mycroft was looking strangely at Sherlock, whose ears had gone very red.

* * *

The car dropped them off at 221B Baker Street, and Mycroft surprisingly followed them up the stairs into the cluttered room. He spotted the pendant on the mantelpiece, and nodded towards it.

"Don't touch it!" John and Sherlock barked in unison. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in slight rebuke, and then wriggled the fingers of one gloved hand pointedly.

"It will not be my fault if you end up in the head of an even fatter fool," Sherlock said caustically. John waved his hand in a 'do as you please' dismissal, and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Two seconds later, he was cursing the lack of milk, and had thrown Sherlock's coat back on to go down to Tesco's, citing 'five minutes!'

"Have you told him," Mycroft said in a low voice, the minute the door shut behind John.

Sherlock flopped into John's chair. "Told him what?"

Mycroft tilted his head at his brother, who was fidgeting slightly. "You have never been able to blush before, Sherlock, and thus you cannot control it at all. Your ears are red again."

"Damn things," Sherlock muttered.

"So, have you told him?" Mycroft pressed.

"Told. Him. What," Sherlock grated.

"You apologised to him, Sherlock," said Mycroft gently, and Sherlock's blue eyes skidded away.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Why him, and no-one else?"

"Because…" and Sherlock's thin lips tightened slightly.

"Tell me."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to his brother, and he glared as he said, "Because he's John. Because no-one else is John. Satisfied?"

"And have you told him?"

Sherlock sighed, looking at his hands. "No. I won't need to."

Mycroft leaned back in Sherlock's usual chair. "Oh?"

"He knows I don't apologise to anyone, either. He will realise this in, oh, about six minutes time whilst waiting in line to pay for the milk. It will occur because he will be musing on your unusual reactions to our predicament, and to the apology. He will drop the milk as he realises what it meant… what it means."

"So there have been other clues," Mycroft tapped his fingers on his crossed knee. "You _have_ been getting careless."

Sherlock scowled. "This is not an area in which I feel you are qualified to make any sort of criticism."

"Touche. Now, why?"

"Why?"

"You know what the word means. It's your livelihood, sad as it is. Why John?"

"Stop cross-examining me, Mycroft."

"I don't see why I should stop. After all, I need to know if my little brother is sure of what he is doing."

"I have no idea," Sherlock admitted. "But then, I've not begun anything."

"I beg to differ," Mycroft smiled like a shark. "Why John? He's nothing out of the ordinary."

"No," said Sherlock moodily.

"Nor especially intelligent."

"No," Sherlock said again, even more morose.

"A thoroughly normal man, in fact."

"Thank you for pointing that out," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"But this is the man Sherlock Holmes finally falls in love with," Mycroft shook his head and tutted theatrically, hoping for a reaction.

His volatile little brother didn't disappoint, standing suddenly and storming over to grip the windowsill, staring out at the dull grey day. "He is and he's not, he's the most boring, pedestrian, ordinary, mundane, dull, wonderful, brave, loyal, clever… And his sister thinks he is in love with me, or perhaps other way around, and he is bisexual, and can run all day and night, he shot a man for me, he can barely move one arm above his head, he can't reach the tea and he never complained, and he is _covered,_ Mycroft, _peppered_ with scars that he never speaks about, and he listens to me and is always surprising me."

Sherlock gave his wry half smile, looking into reflected blue eyes. "He surprises _me_. I thought that was close to impossible, he does it effortlessly. I didn't even know I was alone until I met him. And I hurt him, and he has forgiven me. Even forgiven me this," and Sherlock gestured to his reflection, the reflection of John.

Mycroft stood silently, and came to place a hand on his brother's heaving shoulder, feeling a welter of scar tissue under the soft old jumper. "You're wrong, Sherlock," he said quietly. "You do know what you're doing."

Sherlock nodded brokenly, and his forehead tipped against the cold glass.

"And his sister is right," Mycroft added. "He loves you."

The shoulder hitched a little. "Why?" came the bitter question, "Why does he? Why would he?"

"Maybe you can ask him yourself," came a low baritone from the door, and Mycroft whipped around to see John propping himself up on the frame with a hand as he panted slightly, trying to catch his breath. "You idiot," John added fondly.

Sherlock had frozen under Mycroft's fingers.

"Ah, I'll leave you now," Mycroft said diplomatically, glancing at John's shoes as he squeezed the shoulder once more, and was amused to see splatters of milk on the toes. Some things, at least, did not change.

* * *

Once the door had shut behind Mycroft, John turned back to where Sherlock had the windowsill in a death-grip. "Sherlock," he prompted gently. "Look at me, please."

Sherlock let out a strangled noise, and unclenched his hands from the sill, turning to his… friend? His John. Yes.

"How can you think I don't love you," said John in a hard whisper, his voice rasping.

"I am not… loveable," said Sherlock stiffly.

"Believe me when I say you are," said John flatly.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, just as flatly. John blew a gust of breath between his teeth and flopped down on the sofa, studying his – Sherlock's – narrow hands.

"Just… believe me, Sherlock," John said seriously. "You are. Very. Very, very loveable."

Sherlock placed one scarred hand over John's. "Tell me why. I need to know."

John folded the hand between his, toying absently with the fingers. "I was angry, you know?" he said eventually.

"I know." Sherlock sat beside him on the couch and watched his hand being turned over and squeezed. "You wanted to move out."

John shook his head, curls bouncing. "No, not really. I was furious with you for all the reasons I said, but there was the reason I didn't, couldn't tell you." John took a very long, shuddering breath. "I have been in love with you, _really_ in love with you, since the moment you said to Mrs Hudson I'd take the upstairs room, because a man at the door said so. And he handed me my cane, and you actually smiled at me. This big smile, all pride in me and yourself and what we'd just done. And even after telling me '_married to my work_' and all, and I… fell."

Sherlock was very still. "That was the second day. The second day we'd known each other."

"Right," John smiled wryly. "I know."

"All these months, then."

"Right again. Are you a detective or something?" John nudged him, still smiling.

Sherlock nudged him back, feeling his own mouth beginning to tilt upwards. "Tell me why, John."

"You just want to hear nice things about yourself," he said in a mock-accusatory manner.

"Always," sniffed Sherlock. "Anyway, you heard me babbling embarrassingly in front of Mycroft. I may never live down the ignominy. So return the favour. Why?'

"You're like a terrier or something," John muttered. "Okay then. But I'm not very good at saying this sort of thing."

"And you think I am?" Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "John, maybe you don't really know me all that well."

"Oh, shut up," John said, threading his fingers between Sherlock's shorter ones. It made the scar on his palm pull, but not uncomfortably. John took a deep breath, and looked full into Sherlock's face, the sudden eye contact jarring and almost unbearably intimate. "You are the most ridiculous, insane, impossible, overbearing, lazy, rude, selfish and utterly _wonderful _man I have ever met. You make me feel alive in a world that feels dead to me."

Sherlock couldn't look away, though all his instincts wanted him to. He'd asked for this, repeatedly, and now it was nearing too much for him. He stared, dry mouthed, as John scooted closer to him on the couch, and took his other hand.

"You believe that your mind is the only thing about you worth a damn. You're wrong. You believe that I'll get tired of you. Wrong again. I could run after you forever. You fixed it so I could. I want to _kill _anyone who _ever_ tries to hurt you. In fact, I probably will. You're the most lost person I know, and yet you're a leader, you lead everyone around you – you've got a gravitational pull the size of the planet – oh yes, and you wouldn't know that because you only study the things you need. And so sometimes, when a clue is pop culture or, say, the solar system, I can help you for once. And you look at me like… like I'm amazing." John shook his head slightly, the fingers tightening a little on Sherlock's. "Like I'm the only one in the room. And it makes me wish I were."

Sherlock stared helplessly at John.

This went on until John obviously became a little worried he'd said the wrong thing, or too much, or not enough, and he prompted, "Sherlock? Are you… sorry, I told you I wasn't very good at this sort of oomph!"

For at the last, Sherlock hurled himself forward into John's arms, and glued his lips to the doctor's. There was evidently a moment of shock, before John's eyes slid shut and he wrapped his arms around the now-smaller man.

Sherlock's head and heart were racing. How had he missed it? Since the _second day,_ since _and you invaded Afghanistan_. John, John, oh, _John_.

John's lips were moving, soft and syrupy on his, and Sherlock blinked, before his eyes fluttered closed. That felt_wonderful_. He tried to mimic the motions, and was rewarded with a groan from deep within John's chest. Kissing was not Sherlock's strong point – none of his partners had ever wanted to kiss him. It seemed he might have trouble getting John to stop.

And now John was opening his mouth on Sherlock's and a tongue pressed into his, and danced slowly and seductively along his own. Sherlock felt a moan escape him, but simply couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed at it. This was marvellous, John was obviously a intellect of far greater magnitude than he had ever given him credit for.

Then John pulled back. "This is weird."

"No it's not," Sherlock snapped breathlessly. "Now continue."

"No, it's _weird._ I'm kissing my own lips, here..." John gestured uncomfortably at the face Sherlock was wearing. Sherlock lifted that one eyebrow sardonically.

"Are you in any confusion as to who I am?" he said pointedly.

John scrunched his nose. "Well, no."

"And I am similarly clear on who is kissing me. Who _was_ kissing me, at least, and doing it damned well, and has for some inexplicable reason decided to bloody well stop. Now, if you're over your little moment of existential crisis, maybe you could do that thing with your tongue again?"

John laughed helplessly. "You are completely impossible."

"And you just said you love it. So shut up and kiss me again. I want to know how you did that tongue thing."

It was so _Sherlock,_ so completely him. John laughed again at the utterly Sherlockian expression of impatience on his own lined face. No matter which body he wore, Sherlock was always going to be completely and totally himself.

And that was _fine._

Sherlock groaned with satisfaction as John's mouth locked back over his, and John's tongue danced and writhed against his own once more. A long-fingered hand was now smoothing down the rumpled jumper, along his shoulder and then down his ribs to rest possessively on his hip, just over another scar. Sherlock grasped John's head and tilted his own, attempting to deduce the most pleasurable aspect of their mouths meeting. John let out a truly undignified noise, and he felt the long body almost _melt_ against him, the hand on his hip tightening to an edge of pain that was just _perfect_.

Sherlock used the leverage he had to slowly, so slowly, lean back onto the couch, bringing John with him so their bodies lay flush against each other, lanky and compact, John's longer frame a pleasant weight on top of him.

"Sherlock," John said huskily, mouthing at Sherlock's ear, "God, I love you."

Sherlock couldn't say it back, not at all, but he grasped John's head even more firmly and pressed their foreheads together, and John seemed to get the message. A quirked smile that really belonged on another face graced John's lips, before he dove forward and claimed Sherlock's again. Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, and he could feel the hard length of John pressed against his hip. He wanted more.

"Wait," he managed, pulling away from John," Stop. Bedroom. Now."

John's eyes suddenly smouldered, and he rose in one movement and held out his hand to pull Sherlock up. Together they fumbled, kissing, towards the downstairs bedroom, knocking over the coffee table, several book stacks and a picture frame from where Sherlock had pressed John hard against the wall and _rubbed_ along his body like a particularly amorous cat.

Eventually, they made it into Sherlock's mess-strewn room, and John pushed the smaller man forcefully onto the bed, clambering over him and straddling his hips. He kissed Sherlock bruisingly, jarringly hard for a moment, in which Sherlock became giddy from the unaccustomed pleasure and the depth of feeling behind it. Then between kisses John sat up and tore off Sherlock's long coat, before starting to attack the suit buttons viciously.

"Naked, now," John said, and his voice (had it ever been that deep? Really?) was a promise of wonderful, filthy things.

Sherlock wholeheartedly agreed. John was a _genius_. He scooted out from under John's heavier legs and pulled frantically at the striped jumper, taking it and the shirt beneath it off somewhat awkwardly as John began on the buttons of his own shirt. He was completely hard now, this body's not-inconsiderable length (but _enviable_girth) aching and proud as he freed it from the confines of the jeans and kicked them off.

John was shirtless now, yanking at the tongue of his belt and rolling back to pull the pressed trousers off, followed immediately by the expensive designer pants. Once completely naked, he didn't even hesitate but pushed his hands against Sherlock's shoulders so he thudded back onto the bed. John directly clambered over him, back to his prior position, and _oh_ to feel the length of hot, human skin pressed against his, to feel the slide of legs against each other and the soft hot puff of air against his face.

Sherlock groaned as their cocks slid together, and John began to grind slowly against him. The delicious push and pull of their lengths sliding beside each other… and yet Sherlock wanted more. Far more.

He abruptly rolled them over so that he was now astride John, and leaned down to kiss him thoroughly (and Sherlock could be _very_ thorough). And to think he'd never really seen the point of kissing before this. Another thing to thank John for.

Reaching down, he grasped them both in his unscarred right hand, and they both groaned shakily, the pressure caused by his palm made the other throbbing cock yet _closer_, and Sherlock buried his face in John's neck as he began to move his hand up and down, up and down, torturous friction building a fire in the base of his belly.

And yet –

"John," he breathed into his neck. "John, it's not enough yet."

John moaned, his body writhing. "I… I… Sherlock, what?"

Sherlock pulled a little harder at his hot handful. " I want… _more_, John."

"M-more?" John was biting his lip, from the sound of his voice. Sherlock pushed himself away from where he had been sucking and biting at John's (well, his own, but who benefited, that was the real question) neck. "What… what do you want, Sherlock?"

"I want you to fuck me, John," Sherlock emphasised his words by squeezing their slick cocks slightly as his hand pulled again, up and down, up and down. "I want you inside me."

He added a twist to his wrist and flicked his thumb over the head of John's weeping cock, just to make sure he got the message. "Right. Now."

John's eyes had gone very wide, and there was no mistaking the sheer _want_ in them. "Oh, Sherlock…" he growled. "You are always… so _full_ of surprises…" and he latched his mouth over a nipple and _sucked_ until Sherlock was bucking into his fist, jerking out of sync with the other cock in his hand.

He suddenly found himself unceremoniously on his back again, John covering his chest and belly with hot, hard kisses, a hand gently parting his legs. John looked up briefly and his breathing was still completely ragged when he asked, "I… assume you've done this… before."

Sherlock inclined his head, panting with suppression. "I assume you… have too. Don't you _dare_ stop."

John gave him a truly wicked grin, and then Sherlock found two long fingers prodding at his mouth as another toyed with his perineum and squeezed at his tightened balls. He opened his mouth and sucked at the fingers, hard, before coating them liberally in his saliva before they were removed.

The press against his entrance was shocking, because it was _so_ tight. Sherlock knew his own body was not this tight, hadn't been for years, but it seemed John hadn't taken this role very often in his sexual exploits. That made sense, with everything he knew of the man. Still, it was slightly worrying, if exciting, to be close to_virgin_ tight again, even if it were likely to hurt in the morning.

The second finger stung a little, but Sherlock made himself relax. John was nipping at his other nipple now, which made the heat ratchet again and helped him to unclench around the fingers, scissoring gently, opening him up. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John watching him with an expression close to reverence on his face, and he arched in desire to see it, to have that effect on John.

The third _really_ stung, and Sherlock gasped, "Lube. Drawer, second down."

John withdrew. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly, and Sherlock snarled in frustration.

"I. Am fine. You idiot. But I won't be if you don't go and get that blasted lube."

John had never moved faster. Within seconds, he was back at the bed, coating his fingers in the slippery gunk and pressing them back into Sherlock. "Oh, that's better," Sherlock hissed in satisfaction, voice hitching erratically. "Honestly, John."

John's eyes twinkled with a hint of vindictiveness, and Sherlock felt the fingers inside him _crook_ and a shower of stars went off in his mind.

"Affftglerfffff!" he blurted, and bit down hard on his forearm as John's fingers danced nimbly across his prostate, again and again and again.

John smirked. "My body, after all. I _do_ know where the off-switch is."

Sherlock could only moan and thrash as John skilfully brought him to the shining edge of orgasm, not allowing him to tip over. "Please!" he yelped. "John!"

Abruptly, the fingers withdrew, and John was clambering over him, smearing more lube over his cock and lining up. "You're the idiot," he breathed, nothing but love and need in his voice as he pressed into Sherlock slowly, slowly.

Sherlock kissed him, long and deep, as the burning sensation slowly subsided and the feeling of being filled began to overpower it. He hooked a leg over John's hip and forced him to push deeper, rolling his hips upwards as he did, and John let out a soft string of curses, sweet and filthy.

John began to move slowly yet deliberately, pushing out and in of Sherlock as inexorably as the tides. The friction was delicious, but still, _still_ Sherlock wanted more.

"John," he breathed, "my John, mine."

"Yours," John gasped, his hips snapping harder, responding to the force of the emotion.

"Mine!" Sherlock grasped John's hips and practically _pulled_ the man into him, and John's strangled cry was all that he could have desired.

"Yours, I'm yours," he choked, his hips pistoning now. Sherlock felt him change the angle slightly, and he was seeing stars again, John unerringly hitting his prostate over and again.

"John!" he yelped, and John's hand wrapped around his rock-hard cock, and pumped him in rhythm to the pounding of the blood in his ears.

"Sherlock, I…" John managed, and Sherlock could feel John lengthening and hardening inside him, getting closer and closer.

"Soon," Sherlock panted.

"I… love you," John whispered breathlessly, raggedly. "God help me… but… I do…"

And then John did something marvellous with his wrist, and Sherlock was coming all over it, all over John's belly, crying out in release. John jerked as Sherlock spasmed about him, and then he was coming, slamming into Sherlock and almost shouting through gritted teeth.

John fell ungracefully onto his elbows either side of Sherlock's head, and kissed him messily, before carefully withdrawing and fumbling for Sherlock's discarded shirt to clean them off with. That done, he threw it across the room to land in the mountainous washing pile that John hadn't even begun to tackle in his sojourn as Sherlock Holmes, dragged up the duvet, and collapsed bonelessly half on top of Sherlock, who hummed in satisfaction and threaded a hand through the sweaty, tangled curls.

"You are truly dreadful at doing my hair," he commented drowsily.

"And you're terrible at making tea," John smiled against Sherlock's shoulder.

"That's why I have you. And Mrs Hudson," Sherlock added absently.

"You are not shagging Mrs Hudson. I forbid it."

Sherlock snorted.

"Do you think Moriarty even knew what the pendant does?" John asked in a muffled voice.

"I think not. Perhaps he was trying to infect us with some wish of his own."

"Hmm. We thwarted him then. We're good at thwarting, us," John dropped a kiss onto Sherlock's shoulder. "S'not so bad. If we stay like this, I mean."

"Really?" Sherlock twisted around to look into sleepy grey eyes.

"Mmm. Still together, aren't we? And there are perks," John smiled.

"Definite perks," Sherlock agreed, and tucked his head back against John.

"And thwarting."

"Thwarting, indeed. Which reminds me, how did you escape?"

John pushed his head against the warm shoulder under him. "Figured it out, then?" he mumbled resentfully.

"Most of it, I think. You were shot, and then captured. And escaped, after being tortured. But I don't know how."

"That cut on my thigh?"

"Mmm?"

"I had a knife strapped to my leg. I had to rub the ropes against it, through my trousers, to cut them. Cut myself a bit too, the edge was resting flat against my leg. Then it was just a case of threaten someone until I could grab a gun, and then disappear into the mountains to almost starve for a few days until a patrol turns up."

"I think you must have cut into yourself more than 'just a bit', judging from that scar."

"Compared to a fresh bullet wound and a dozen or so interrogation-style cuts, believe me, it seemed like 'just a bit'." John brushed his hand over the scar on Sherlock's shoulder. "Lucky I'm a doctor, or I'd be dead from blood loss."

Sherlock's arms tightened around him, and John kissed him sleepily.

"But I'm not," he said simply, and put his head down again.

Sherlock, lying in the darkness and listening to John's breathing deepen into sleep, was suddenly aware that in many ways, John Watson was the most extraordinary man. And none of it ever showed. As he dropped off to sleep, Sherlock fumbled for John's hand and squeezed it.

"Love you too," he mouthed silently.

* * *

If a passer-by on Baker Street had looked up into the windows of 221B that night, they would have seen absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Which just goes to show.

* * *

John woke slowly, feeling a warm heaviness in all his limbs. There was a body thrown over him in a dramatic, possessive sprawl, and his hand tightened around the shoulders, a drowsy smile crossing his lips. He pulled Sherlock's limp form closer, and went to drop a kiss on the lolling head, and froze.

Messy dark curls greeted his lips.

John sat bolt upright, dislodging Sherlock, who mumbled in complaint, and he held up his hands before his face.

Short, strong fingers with a scarred left palm shook slightly in front of him.

"Oh my god," John breathed, a huge, hysterical happiness threatening to burst out of him. "I'm me."

"Wh… J'n," Sherlock grumbled, pawing at John to lie down again. "G'sleep."

"No, Sherlock, Sherlock, _wake up!_ We've changed back! We've…" and abruptly John was aware of an intense discomfort in his rear. "Ow."

"G'sleep John," Sherlock commanded sleepily, his hand patting somewhere near John's shoulder.

And then it encountered scars, and stopped dead.

"John?"

John, staring at his hands in bemusement and overwhelming relief, did not answer.

"Have you scarred my body in any way, shape or form? Because I will retaliate."

John didn't trust himself to answer, so he just grabbed Sherlock's shoulders (with his hands! His own hands!) and rolled him over to face him.

Sherlock's grey eyes were wide already, and they widened still further at the sight of John beside him. His long-fingered hand uncharacteristically trembled as it slowly reached John's short, sleep-mussed hair and ran through it. "We've changed back," he murmured in awe.

"We have," John confirmed, running his hands up Sherlock's shoulders, before yanking the other man up to capture him in a bear hug. "We've changed back!"

"But…" Sherlock clung to John just as fiercely, though his voice was bewilderingly lost. "_How_? And why have we changed back, and _why?_"

"I don't care, I'm _me_, and you're _you_ again," John crowed jubilantly, holding Sherlock tighter, who squeaked in a most undignified manner.

"Can't breathe here, John," he managed, and John released him reluctantly, smoothing over the black hair, the angular face, the long pale neck.

"Sorry," John murmured, and one of his roving hands cupped Sherlock's face as he tilted his forehead against the others. "Just happy to see you. And me."

Sherlock gave his small, restrained smile. "Me too."

"Really?" John teased. "Thought you'd be sick of this face."

"Oh, not of seeing it. No," Sherlock's smile grew mischievous. "Of shaving it. You have a positively primordial beard."

"I do not," John rubbed a hand along his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. "It's fairly normal. Although I have been thinking of growing a moustache. Had been."

"A month ago," Sherlock said softly.

"A month," John repeated, shaking his head. "A whole month."

"We did fairly well, on the whole," Sherlock stretched lazily. "Only Mycroft figured it out, and he was the only one who was likely to."

"Speak for yourself," John muttered. "I don't think I was holding up very well at all, by the end there – or in the beginning. And the middle was absolutely rubbish."

Sherlock caught one of John's hands. "It was. Yes, it was. I'm… sorry, John."

John blinked. "What for?"

"It is hard, being you." Sherlock watched his own thin fingers dance around John's darker ones. "I never did understand that."

"No harder than it is to be you," John replied seriously. "I've had a lot of practice at being me, after all and you… You're a pretty singular person, you know."

Sherlock smiled gently, a smile for John alone. "Naturally," was what he said. "Grow the moustache, it will suit you."

"Really?" John smoothed fingers over his upper lip. "Well, I might as well look like the full military cliché…"

"After all, you have all that barbarian excess facial hair to deal with. It may cut down on the amount of blond hair in the sink each morning," Sherlock sniffed.

"Oh, I _will_ miss that," John said mock-seriously. "Barely even having to shave once in three days. Sure you're a bloke?"

Sherlock's hand had made it to John's hip, where it squeezed hard. "Forgotten already?" he purred.

John winced. "Ah, you seem to have left me with the after-effects. I warn you, I'm not up for…"

"I was thinking more of repeating the experiment, now we're in the correct bodies. I, of course, am not suffering any of said, er, 'after-effects'." Sherlock kissed John's temple softly.

John's eyebrows shot up. "How on earth have you stayed single when you're this insatiable?"

Sherlock shrugged and leaned back against the bed on his elbows. His body was a cool stretch of white against the dark sheets. "I'm not, really. I have partaken in sexual congress before and determined my likes and dislikes, but that was the extent of it. Before, that was the point of the exercise, and once I had discovered what I preferred, I felt no need to repeat the experiment."

"Before?" John asked.

"Before," Sherlock confirmed. "Obviously the data was incomplete. I had no idea I was missing a vital element; that I preferred you, of all people. This calls for a great deal of empirical evidence to support the new theory."

"Oh, it does, does it," John growled, moving to crawl along Sherlock's body. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of science. I think I can oblige."

"Oh good," Sherlock breathed as John paused over a nipple and teased it into wakefulness. "Your penis is quite a bit thicker than my own and I am _dying_ to find out how it feels."

John choked.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sent John a text message later that day, as they sat eating breakfast (well, as John sat eating breakfast. Sherlock was staring into the distance leaning on his steepled hands. The sight made John's heart clench happily.)

**Congratulations. MH**

"Don't answer that," Sherlock said without even moving his eyes.

John shrugged, and went back to his cereal. Another beep came from the phone.

**Files regarding ambassadorial embarrassment on Sherlock's laptop now. Don't let him ignore them. MH**

John held up the phone. "Doesn't he mean 'in your inbox'? Not 'on your laptop'?"

"No," Sherlock didn't even blink. "He means what he says."

John looked at the message again, and shuddered. It was all a little too _1984_ for him. "Scary," he murmured.

"Irritating," Sherlock corrected, his full lip curling. John (who had found he could fixate on Sherlock's mouth for hours) caught himself staring again. He turned back to his cereal, a smile tugging at his own lips.

The phone bleeped once more. Sherlock's fingers twitched. John patted his shoulder apologetically, and reached for his phone once more.

**Also, you may be pleased to know that a suitable donor liver has been found for Ms. Harriet Watson. Call it an engagement present. MH**

"A liver!" John said stunned. _Harry would live_.

Sherlock's eyes did snap to John now. "Mycroft found Harry a liver?" he asked for confirmation, and John nodded jubilantly, holding up the phone to Sherlock.

"That is wonderful, John," Sherlock said solemnly.

"Isn't it wonderful?" agreed John happily, before his face scrunched. "And a little bit worrying?"

"Hmm?"

"Your brother can just 'discover' a matching donor liver and bump Harry to the top of the transplant list, just like that?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, in a bored tone.

"Oh," said John, thinking that perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. And then –

"Hang on, we're engaged?"

* * *

As it turned out, they were.

Harry Watson lived. Her body accepted the donor liver, and although she suspected John and Sherlock's hand in arranging the transplant, she couldn't prove anything. She had enrolled herself in every course, hypnosis session, counselling program and rehab trial possible in order to beat her addiction, so when John rolled her out of the hospital, she was to go straight to a greenery-clad mansion in the Lake District (surrounded by a two-mile alcohol-free zone).

"What'll you do with the rest of your life then, Harry?" John teased as he helped her into the waiting car (black, sleek and unmarked, of course).

"You'll laugh," Harry grinned up at him. "But I'm going after Clara, if she'll ever take me back. And I thought I might become a motivational speaker, you know… once I feel I've kicked this thing for good."

"You would be very successful at that," Sherlock nodded. "Surviving death by a gnat's wing and all."

"Right, which you had nothing to do with, of course," drawled Harry, but she'd given up pressing them on the mystery of her transplanted liver.

"You'd be amazing at it, Harry," said John, meaning it. Harry had always had the gift of the gab.

"Thanks, Johnny," she smiled at him, and pulled the seatbelt gingerly across her swathed abdomen, before turning back to the two men. "And I'm glad to see you two finally sorted yourselves out," she added archly.

"Um," John blushed, ears red, and Sherlock gave her an amused look.

"I'm glad you're glad," he said solemnly, throwing a careless arm over the blushing John's shoulder. "Safe trip."

"Look after yourself, Harry" John said earnestly, still blushing, and squeezed her hands. "Call me, won't you?"

"Oh, you'll wish I hadn't," she grinned again, before laughing anew at John's beet-red face.

Their relationship remained a secret from the Yard for all of fourteen minutes, after Sherlock received an urgent call from Lestrade. He stalked up to the crime scene, eyes darting.

"About time you showed," Lestrade muttered, lifting the crime scene tape for them. "This one is weird. Right up your street."

John nodded to the DI as he followed Sherlock into the alley, where a teenaged boy was lying face-down in a pool of blood with odd symbols drawn in it, a roughly circular frame to his head. Sherlock frowned, studying him.

Anderson walked up behind them then, and silently handed John a couple of pairs of gloves. John waited for the usual antagonism, but it seemed none was forthcoming. Anderson's face was neutral under his heavy hair, and he jerked his head towards Sherlock, meaning John should hand over the gloves.

"Thanks," John said, and scurried over to Sherlock to hand him the pair of gloves. He took them without a word and started pulling them on, so John did the same.

"What would you say is the cause of death, John?" Sherlock murmured, circling the boy.

John frowned. "Blunt force head trauma seems the most likely culprit for all that blood, also for the position of the blood pool under his head, but there's no obvious wound there, no matted hair, nothing. Has anyone rolled him over?" he asked Anderson, who had been joined by Donovan and Lestrade against the alley wall.

"No," Lestrade said with a glance at his sergeant and forensic expert for confirmation. "We were waiting until you got here."

"Then I'd say there has to be some other cause of death on the lad's front, something that bled profusely, stomach wound perhaps, and then the killer dragged the boy back by the legs to put his head in the pool of blood so they could paint all that around it. What is that, Aramaic?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, an odd note in his voice. "Let's turn him over."

With Anderson's help, they rolled the stiffened corpse over, and John noted immediately the scrapes all over the boy's bloodless face. "Definitely dragged," he said firmly, pointing them out to Sherlock, who made a strangled noise of assent.

The cause of death was immediately apparent as a long, hooked slice to the belly. John 'hmm'd in satisfaction, and rose, pulling off the gloves. "Nasty way to die," he commented absently. "Expensive jacket so he's not a runaway. Do you know who he is yet?

"I don't believe this," Donovan choked under her breath. "Him too. He seemed so _normal_…"

"A rich family," Sherlock also stood, nodding to the watch smeared in blood and bile. "Recreational drug user, mostly marijuana. Attends a wealthy boarding school, member of the school's rowing team. And John… I absolutely have to kiss you now."

John had been nodding, his brow furrowed and attention entirely on the sad corpse of the young man. Then his head snapped up and he gaped. "What… Sherluuummmmph! Mmmmm…."

Sherlock pulled away from John, his eyes bright and hard. "That… was _magnificent_," he breathed huskily, and his mouth descended again.

The silence from the three standing with them around the body was almost a physical miasma of pure disbelief.

"Now I really don't believe it," Donovan managed.

"Me neither," Anderson's eyes were boggling.

Lestrade took stock of his open mouth, closed it, took stock of his subordinates' open mouths, and gently reached over and clicked them shut.

"Show's over, John. Sherlock," he said sternly. "Wishing you every happiness and all, but this kid is still very dead."

"I know," Sherlock murmured against John's lips. John seemed to be in a trance as Sherlock's mouth spoke in between long, passionate kisses. "John figured out what killed him. John is extraordinary."

"Save it for the honeymoon," Lestrade groaned.

"Not until December," Sherlock said in the same breathless tone. John's hands had moved to Sherlock's, well, Lestrade was going to diplomatically call them _back of his hips_ and was massaging gently. A squeak came from Donovan, and Anderson had his eyes shut.

"Make them go away, sir," Anderson said from within gritted teeth.

"No, don't," said Donovan under her breath. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, in Lestrade's opinion.

"Going to Venice," Sherlock murmured against John's ear, and John smiled dreamily.

"Going to fix Venice," he assented. "You and me."

"You pair together are the weirdest thing I have ever encountered, and I've been on the force for twenty years," Lestrade growled. "Well done, another first, Sherlock. I'm leaving you to it. Try to remember you're working – and surrounded by people who are watching your every move."

John's eyes snapped open, and Lestrade folded his arms as he watched the blush creep up John's neck until his ears were the colour of a bus. Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's and laughed softly at his expression.

"He can laugh?" Donovan shook her head. "No, too much. I'm off to hand out blankets, sir."

"One for me," said Anderson in a strangled voice, eyes still resolutely closed.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, and then led his voluntarily blind crime scene investigator away by the shoulders. "Come on, son," he said gruffly. "We'll get our crime scene back in a minute."

"Will they be gone?" Anderson moaned.

"They'll never be gone," Lestrade half-smiled. "Best to get used to that." He deposited Anderson into an orange blanket, and turned back to where Sherlock and John had broken apart for the minute, and were refocussing on the body of the boy.

"Oh, and Sherlock, John?" he called.

Sherlock simply tipped his head, his eyes querying. John shouted, "what?"

"Congratulations," Lestrade grinned.

John's smile was just this side of goofy. And Sherlock…

Sherlock said, "Thank you. And you are looking for a scholar, perhaps a professor of antiquities, whose main field is early Jewish or middle eastern history, possibly biblical history. It is more statistically likely to be a man, but the cut is shallow and ritualistic, so it is entirely likely it could be a woman or an older man with weaker wrists. This is the beginning of a rite to Ba'al, an ancient Canaanite god, so we are looking at a religious fanatic of some stripe. And this rich boy has no mp3 player. Perhaps a poor religious fanatic who likes music then. Where is his mp3 player?"

Lestrade grinned at them both, reassured that everything was as normal as it was ever likely to get around Sherlock Holmes. "You're welcome. Go and find it."

* * *

"Why didn't it _work_" the shadowy man roared again, smashing a priceless 12th century Mayan figurine against the opposite wall. The pendant was _guaranteed_ to work! Holmes would never feel strongly enough about anyone in order to subvert it, sociopath that he was. His heart was given to puzzles, not people.

His favourite minion watched his employer with dead eyes.

"It was supposed to break him," he pouted, and threw himself onto his wing-backed desk chair. His glass desk was in shards underfoot.

"Sorry, Jim," Moran said in his insinuating growl.

Moriarty waved his hand in a frilly gesture of dismissal. "No matter. But now I don't have it. Get it back," he ordered, and Moran nodded, before hulking his way out of the office.

Standing, pushing his hands deep into his pockets, Jim Moriarty walked to the window and stared out at the glittering towers of Dubai. He'd get the amulet back. He'd figure out how to set it so _his_ wishes came to pass. After all, it was 98% certain that the bloodless Sherlock Holmes would not have enough passion in him to make it work, and Jim himself…

Well, a psychopath at the tip of the antisocial personality disorder iceberg always had enough _passion_ to spare. He'd make it work.

_I didn't mean it as a compliment._

__

Yes, you did.

_Okay, I did._

The words still reverberated through his head, the whole delicious, wicked scene. The pathetic pet doctor hunched on the floor, and Sherlock so tall and pale and breakable, firing on the vest only to be surprised by a distinct lack of explosion and a positively volcanic eruption of thick, oily smoke. Jim had made himself scarce at that point.

But he'd be back. And Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just be beaten…

He'd be _burned_.

_Catch. You. Later._

"No, you won't," he murmured.

_No, you won't._

Fin


End file.
